All I Have To Live For
by oncelery
Summary: Karkat has a hard life in both home and school. His genes make him an outcast. His father leaves him bruised and beaten. All he feels is his own is the music he creates. When he is given the chance to leave everything behind, to travel and play lead guitar for a band, he will be faced with some of the hardest decisions he will ever make. - Eventual DaveKat. T just in case.
1. Chapter 1

**All I Have To Live For**

**Chapter One**

Karkat's day began with a loud clamoring of metal on tile nearby outside his door, followed by the low hum of curses he knew all too well. He forced an eye open to check the glowing red numbers from his alarm clock on the night stand. Five o'clock in the morning. With a groan, he rolled out of bed and shuffled out to check on his dad.

The kitchen floor was littered with red-painted metal pots and shattered glass lids. His father was clutching his head with a tired expression, but glared when he turned to face Karkat. Without any explanation (not that Karkat needed one; he was used to this by now), asked, "Where did you unpack the plastic bowls?"

Cautiously, Karkat moved to a cupboard by the fridge and brought one down. His dad took it without a word of thanks and began making himself some cereal. After he left, Karkat grumbled to himself and warmed up some pancakes.

It was still very dark outside, and rather cold on the balcony adjoining the living space of their apartment, but Karkat slid out onto it anyway. He liked the balcony, and he was sure, given different circumstances, his father would, too; his father had always wanted one in the dream house he and Karkat's mother had already begun construction on. But after she died, his father became too much of an emotional wreck to finish the house. They now lived in a semi-rundown apartment just outside Houston, surviving (barely) on the money they had. Karkat's dad was "looking for work" every day, which, Karkat knew, was a lie. He was just out blowing their money on alcohol at the local bars. Some nights he came home drunk and the next morning's hangover would wake him up extremely early, hungry and grumpy and tired.

Karkat rolled up his left sleeve gently and winced as he saw the bruise his father had left the night before. It was sickly blue-purple and roughly the size of a peach.

When his father left the living room to go out to town, Karkat slipped back inside to clean up the mess he knew would be there. The tan plastic bowl seemed to have been thrown towards the sink. Milk sloshed sloppily over the side onto the false granite counter top and tile floor. He checked and, sure enough, found the metal spoon that had been carelessly tossed into the trash can. He sighed, righting the kitchen and rinsing off the dishes.

It was almost six in the morning when Karkat could finally go back to his room, but it was too late to go back to sleep and a bit too early to get ready for school. He chose instead to pull one of his favorite books from the small shelf above the computer desk and curled up with it by the window. He read and watched the sun rise through dim, dirty panes of glass.

When he finally left for school, looming gray clouds had formed low in the sky. For this, Karkat was grateful; the less direct sun the better. In his old town, strong sun rays were nearly a non-issue, but here he burned very easily. Even when it was rather warm, he wore long sleeves and pants. But on days when the sun was covered, he didn't have to worry too much.

Within a good twelve minutes or so, the short brick building came into view. Teens cluttered the small park-like area outside of it, but Karkat avoided them and weaved his way in through a side door. He headed towards the secluded music rehearsal rooms near the band hall. He liked to leave his guitar there to practice in the mornings, in a nice, quiet environment, much unlike his home.

He strummed a few chords gently and fiddled with the tuning. Finally, he deemed it spot-on and began his warmup. His fingers slid easily across the strings, changing positions fluidly. He hummed along; he always felt happy when he played, especially since there was no one around when he did. Well, not usually.

He knew of one guy- Dave Strider- who sometimes came to the rehearsal rooms, too. Dave liked to mess around with his turntables, spinning records and syncopating beats. Karkat knew Dave got lost in his electronic music, just as Karkat did with his guitar. Anyone could walk up to Dave and try to get his attention, but if he was playing they had as good a chance at conversation as with a wall.

One day, Dave had somehow managed to barge in on his session without being noticed. Rather than set up his equipment, though, he leaned against the wall and listened to Karkat play. The latter was so caught up in his jam that he still hadn't noticed his audience until the bell rang and disturbed his trance. Dave clapped as he finished. Karkat stuttered and shrunk back defensively, embarrassed at not having seen the onlooker, but he packed up quickly and rushed out.

After all, Dave was popular and cool and of high social caste- that much was drilled into his head from day one- and Karkat was just...

Nobody.

…

Classes went by slowly, as they usually did. Karkat sat at the backs of classrooms, away from the other students. Sometimes they looked at him weirdly. Even though he put on blue contacts to hide his weird, pink-red eyes and a dark wig over his pigment-less hair. He hated his genes, hated how even though he covered them up best he could, people still stared at his face, the smooth, paper-white skin that reddened and was broken so easily, so often...

Lunch was no different. He often skipped it to hide away in the locked band hall rooms, where he could be alone. He didn't eat often because of it; his dorky friend, John, back in his old town had said he was going to starve, though he was already skinny as a rail and couldn't gain weight (regardless of how hard he tried). He missed John sometimes, missed their squabbles and jokes, missed hanging out with him after school. He didn't have friends here, thanks to his mutant genes. A girl named Nepeta had shown interest in talking to him the first day, but a tall, muscular boy with a sweating problem dissuaded her from "cavorting" (who even used that word anymore?) with the stranger. Karkat didn't care. He was ready to accept being alone all the time.

It was just the way things would have to be.

The last period in Karkat's day was health. His teacher, Mr. Noir, was a tall, olive-skinned man with a hint of an upstate New York accent, Karkat had placed. He mainly wore dark suits and a black hat- which he even wore inside, much to the principal's chagrin, gleaming black shoes, and a scowl. There was a scar running across his face, slicing over his left eye in a deep gash, rather unsightly. Mr. Noir didn't say anything of it and the students were all too afraid to ask how he got it.

Health was a boring class. Most days their teacher was busy working on some thing or another, so there were several consecutive days of free period. Many of the students chatted amongst themselves. Karkat read and occasionally glanced up to watch them. That day, he noticed Dave, pencil poised, doodling in the back of the book. Dave caught his eye- or at least Karkat thought he did; it was hard to tell since Dave had on those dumb sunglasses- and smirked, holding the book up to display his drawing to Karkat. It was just a scribble of a man falling down stairs. Karkat rolled his eyes and went back to his book. Dave huffed and, after a moment, Karkat heard his pencil scratching across paper again. A moment later there was a crumpled piece of paper on his desk.

Dave watched as he opened it. Scrawled almost illegibly in bright red ink was a note. Karkat blinked and set his face to hide his disbelief. A note? When was the last time someone had wanted to talk to him?

_hey your names karkat right? you play guitar dont you_

Karkat looked back to the cool kid, whose arms were now crossed comfortably, and who nodded at the note, a gesture for him to reply. He hesitated. What was Dave up to?

_Yeah, I do. Why do you care?_

He re-crumpled the paper and tossed it back. Dave caught it easily and read the answer. He scribbled again, taking a bit longer this time.

c_ause me and my friend are looking to start a band. would you be interested?_

Karkat tapped his pen against the paper.

** Next Chapter choices:**

**Karkat: Why not**

**Karkat: No way**


	2. Chapter 2

**No Way**

Karkat's brow rumpled as he scrawled across the lines. Dave picked at a fingernail as he waited.

_No way, dude. Why would you want me in a band anyway? You don't even know me, and I don't even know you! Besides, just because you ask doesn't mean I'll drop everything and join, stupid._

Karkat tensed up as Dave frowned at the paper. Had he really just written that? God, he was such an idiot. This could ruin the small shred of popularity he had. Well, he couldn't do anything about it now. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

He started at the feeling of a short, light pressure on his shoulder as the crumpled ball hit him. He scooped it up and smoothed it out, but the bell rang before he could begin to make out the red scribblings. Dave stood and sauntered over immediately, smirking and leaning on an arm against the wall. "So?"

"I haven't read it yet," Karkat muttered. "Give me a second." Dave fiddled with his hands again- it seemed to be a habit of his, Karkat thought- as he waited.

_you seem cool enough and i thought it might be fun jeez dont get your panties in a twist it was just a simple question_

Karkat huffed and glared at Dave. "My panties are NOT in a twist," he snarled. "Besides, how would being in a band with total strangers be 'fun?'" On the inside, his stomach twisted. He'd only been called "cool" by John, and that was a long time ago. Not a lot of people thought the albino freak was cool.

"Albino?"

_Shit, did I say that out loud? _Karkat hesitantly nodded, fuming inside. He hadn't noticed the pale skin? The pink tilt behind the contacts?

"Nope, I hadn't," Dave smirked. "Do you always say everything aloud? You should work on fixing that."

Karkat bristled and stormed off.

"See you tonight, 8:30 PM sharp, my apartment. Don't be late, and don't forget your guitar," Dave called after him. Karkat could practically hear the smugness in his voice, the knowing that Karkat would have no choice but to show up.

"Yeah, right."

…

When Karkat opened the front door to his living room he was immediately stricken with a blunt, glass object. The shrapnel of the shattering beer bottle against the wall next to him bit into his flesh, leaving tears along the paper-thin skin and causing him to wince as the alcohol poured into them. He tiptoed past the broken glass and ran to the bathroom. His father did not follow.

His cheeks were cut and bleeding, lip split, skin ripped over countless bruises. He wiped the blood trailing down his face and began to clean himself off. He knew he couldn't hide the scratches without makeup- he was used to it, though he wouldn't say he was great at it- but he doubted anyone would notice anyway.

He knew one thing for certain. He wasn't going to stay here; his dad wasn't ever this violent. He had to go somewhere else.

Karkat moaned as he realized there was only place he _could _go. Dave Strider's apartment. It was on the other side of town, but he knew of it. He fidgeted through the afternoon and when 7:30 rolled around he grabbed his guitar and begrudgingly left.

It was only when he reached the door that he realized he hadn't covered the cuts.

"Hey, right on ti- oh, my God, what happened to you?"

"I, uh... It doesn't matter," he muttered, shoving past and adjusting his case strap. "Where should I set up?"

"Well, Bro let me use the living room, so just go through there, I guess. Terezi's in there with Jade, I think." Karkat gave a curt nod and headed where Dave had gestured. He was greeted with the sight of two girls, one he recognized as the girl who had a rather blatant crush on Dave- Jade Harley, he recalled- tuning a bass guitar, and the other Karkat assumed to be Terezi, giggling gleefully as her fingers traipsed across a keyboard. She had sunglasses, too. Karkat realized she had a reason, unlike Dave: blindness. And yet she hadn't seemed like she was. In fact, she seemed perfectly normal.

Whatever. Karkat was here to play, stay away from his dad, and ignore everyone else. That was it.

"Alright, guys, this is Karkat. He's gonna be doing our guitar stuff," Dave informally introduces. He was still watching Karkat's face carefully- probably because of his injuries- but it was hard to tell with the thick shades. Jade seemed friendly enough, flouncing up and introducing herself enthusiastically. Terezi grinned widely and waved at the wall behind and to the left of Karkat, but he assumed she meant it for him.

The four practiced for a while, Karkat mostly listening and trying not to feel awkward, but it was hard being in a popular kid's (pent)house without feeling the overbearing presence of being judged. It was a long two hours.

Dave offered to drive Karkat home. Karkat declined, but Dave followed him out anyway. Karkat could tell he wanted to know what was up with the cuts. Dave led him to a red corolla and opened the passenger door for him. Once they were seated, Dave started the car and turned to Karkat. "So, are you gonna talk about the situation up on your face or am I gonna have to make you?"

**This next chapter is of YOUR CHOOSING! Just leave your idea and the best (or rather, the best based on the plot I have in mind, as all choices are amazing) will be written! **


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